Le Messager
by Fox 85
Summary: He is an outcast of society while remaining an integral part of it. She is a foreign student, thrown into a world for which she is not prepared. Not what you expect.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:**

All characters and events relating to The Phantom of the Opera story belong to Gaston Leroux and other respective owners.

**Author's note:**

To place _The Phantom of the Opera_ characters in a modern day setting and still maintain some semblance of believability necessitates changes, most notably with Christine's character. It simply does not work having her as an extremely naïve girl, not with the cultures and influences that prevail today. I do, however, hope to capture the character's sense of loneliness and vulnerability, as that is a universal theme that transcends time, but I will not endeavor to make her weak.

Erik also poses a challenge. With modern medicine, it is very difficult to imagine how one would survive in today's world and not undergo plastic surgery to correct deformities. I hope I strike an acceptable balance between the plausible and the absurd.

Raoul is perhaps the easiest of them all to give a modern voice, yet I will endeavor to avoid all pitfalls and clichéd abuses of his character.

* * *

Le Messager

* * *

_Nemo me impune lacessit. _

Spring, 1985—

The pianist was seated before the black grand centered on the elegant stage, the lights bathing him in a pale glow. Fitted tux, suit tails off the back of the bench, he sat tall, proud, giving an acknowledging nod to the audience before his fingers rested over the keys.

The chord sounded, followed by a swell of notes that took hold of the concert hall and the senses of the hundreds within it. Like fire, the music seared them, surging to life under the graceful hands that moved rhythmically up and down the ivory keys. Quiet nods of approval circulated through the crowd, every person entranced, relishing the sounds voiced through the dark room.

Perspiration beaded on the forehead of the pianist, his mouth clamped tight in concentration. His body rocked stiffly with effort. The song was relentless, taxing the dancing fingers, draining him.

Minutes fell away. All were lost to the power of the music, the awe of the mind and soul that composed it, the delicate and fearsome strains of music. On and on it grew, shifting in chords, time, key, whispering a story of unthinkable fury and misery…

_A wrong note struck. _

…Just one, and it was immediately covered by the multitude that followed. There were no awkward glances from the audience, no jeering murmurs. The flaw would go unknown, forgotten.

But she recognized it. This piece would haunt her until the end of her days. How many hours had she stood, unknown, listening to the young composer pour his soul into the beast, drawing out a thing a majesty such as she had never heard…such as the world had never heard.

She gripped the program tighter, her attention torn from the performer.

"_I am sorry, but it is not satisfactory work. Your request is denied."_

_He had glared at her, the subtle flex of his jaw the only visible sign of his restraint. It was all she could do to keep a calm focus on those burning gray and blue eyes. He tilted his head up a degree, the overhead light casting an ominous glow upon the mask._

"_And in what way is it unsatisfactory?" His even voice cut to her, as biting as it was melodic. _

_Dr. Olivia Wilson pursed her lips, her eyes moving from the pages of sheet music on her desk to the young man standing before her._

"_It is not up to the standards of this institution, and certainly not for a doctoral candidate. I expect better of you, Mr. Lacroux."_

_He said nothing, standing utterly still with his normal ungodly perfect posture. The chair of the Doctoral Governance Committee sat back in her chair, peering at the student over her glasses. He was young, far younger than the other candidates, his compositions and pianist skills daunting, to say the least. _

_The rejected piece lying before her was hardly unsatisfactory. Even in its nascent stages, the depth of it was profound, enough to guarantee the student fame, reputation. _

_Yet she could not allow it. She would not. Too many times, this student had made a mockery of the institution, disregarding the rules, forsaking boundaries, his presence before her now only evidence of her tolerance for his abilities. She could not permit him the fame he would achieve with this work, not before forcing him taste defeat, the very sentiment he unwittingly evoked so often upon others._

"_Is that all?" he said flatly, placing his hands behind his back, the epitome of coolness. Wilson knew better. The cut had been made, the wound bled. _

_She gave a thin smile and nodded. "Yes, that is all."_

It was not the composer that sat at the piano now. The composer was master over this song, not enslaved by its deadly intricacies. The man on stage suffered under it. She watched grimly. What an actor he proved to be, in her bed or to an audience. There was enough talent there to mask the truth, and enough depravity to play the lie.

She should have never given him the stolen music, let him adopt a piece that could tamed by no other than the hand that wrote it. Still, even from this performance, glory would be secured. The true composer, however, would remain unknown, forgotten. It was a pleasing thought.

She folded her hands and continued to watch the beautiful struggle onstage. The audience—the world, would never know.

* * *

He watched from high above the stage, kneeling, hidden in the shadows. His masterpiece…his work of months, butchered before the world by a thief, one of his own peers.

He closed his eyes, the mask smothering the one lone tear as he drew a shuddered breath.

Every note, every pause, every ebb and swell he knew, had sculpted—his no longer.

He struck the match.

Rising, he took one last glance at the façade below. Without regret, he released the small flame, turning away into the darkness.

Astonished cries echoed throughout the concert hall as the piano ignited.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **

The University of St. Thomas, as appearing in this work, is a fictional school and setting completely from the author's imagination, and any semblance to an existing school(s) is entirely coincidental.

* * *

Current day, fall—

"I need to see your id."

I do not know how long I stared at him, trying to formulate the words over and over in my mind. Inwardly, I cursed myself…how many years had I studied the language? To have a memory lapse now, of all times…

I swallowed, taking a hapless glance at the several bags cluttered about my feet—all mine, much to my shoulder's protest. Did he want one of those? Did the university even do security checks? It was too much at once—too much stress, too much bustle, too many people, sights and sounds that were so foreign…

There were anxious murmurs from the growing line behind me. Cheeks flaming, I sent another pleading look at the young man seated at the desk.

"Your id?" he repeated, slower this time, raising an eyebrow. Against hope, I reached into my pocket and pulled out new piece of plastic, handing it to him slowly.

I had to resist a sigh of relief as he snatched it up, flipping jadedly through the box filled with little envelopes, at last selecting one for me.

"Your key to your room. Enjoy," he said flatly, looking past me.

"Thank you," I mumbled, grabbing the returned ID and envelope before shoving both in my back pocket. I heaved the bags up on different shoulders, anxious to get out of the grumbling line and curious stares. Avoiding the hordes of people bearing everything from 35" TVs to fish tanks, I stood by the corner, somewhat removed from the action, and leaned against a wall.

I had not slept in over two days. Despite the length of the flight from Paris, I could not fall asleep, the nervous twinge never leaving my stomach. Not traveling outside France since I was a little girl, the thought of going to a foreign country, meeting a grandmother I had never known and then being cast off to an American university was hardly inspiring.

I had somehow managed to find a taxi and direct him to the address I was given, at last arriving at one of the largest houses I had ever seen. Gated, the expansive brick house stretched the length of several of the other surrounding homes, rose bushes and columns lending a majestic, foreboding appearance. My bags dumped outside on the driveway, an older woman in a black dress greeted me at the door. I smiled, reaching to give her a kiss and she immediately backed away, her gaze turned downwards. Another woman appeared in the foyer, hair stark white, her clothing immaculate.

"Are you Christine?" she asked, her voice low and sharp.

I nodded, giving a weak smile.

"Very well. Someone will get your bags. Come with me."

Leaving my bags to the attending servants, I followed her into a large sunroom, taking a seat across from her.

"Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

She poured me a cup, looking at me sharply. "You speak with a heavy accent." I gripped the teacup handle tightly. Truth be told, I thought she spoke with an even stronger British one, though it was not my place to say so. As it was, I was struggling to keep up with her words.

"You have a very beautiful home, grandmother."

She lifted an eyebrow and raised the cup to her lips. The conversation continued as thus, dry, rigidly informative, her eyes constantly looking over my travel-weary appearance. I did not understand how my mother could have been related to this woman at all; in my memory, she remained gentle, affectionate, her soft voice lulling me to sleep…

Someone bumped into my side, snapping me from my reverie. With some reluctance, I looked over to find the sloppy, handwritten notices pointing to the different directions of the dorm. It took me a longer than usual to decipher them with the montage of passing bodies, but it was not a futile attempt.

Gritting my teeth, I slipped past the doors to the correct wing, and started up the stairwell, whispering a prayer that my roommate would disprove my doubts of this place.


	3. Chapter 2

_How very wrong I was._

The duffle bag once again beginning its torment of my shoulder, as I climbed upwards, precariously gripping the other bags while I was forced to dodge and wait for the numerous other people that crowded the stairwell.

I quickly realized that the third floor was a carbon-copy of the first two, the rooms identically placed over each other, the same institution white covering the walls with university events-posters and an assortment of floor-related papers plastered up. Reaching the third floor, I looked down one hall, then the other. Some of the doors no longer even had the room number plate on it, and for one of the few times in my life, I was thankful for past year's graffiti across the wood surfaces which proved a sufficient alternative. Room 308 was at the end of the hall, and gracelessly I let my bags fall to the floor.

This was one of the few doors where the plate was still untouched, surrounded by a multitude of photos and sorority clips all centered around the white dry-erase board with the name "Charley."

Despite having the key in my hand, I could not bring myself to barge into another person's room, even if it was to also become my own. I knocked quietly, drawing back as the door flung open. The girl whose face and bare figure were visible on so many of door pictures stood inches from my face, easily a few inches taller and dressed in a robe. She massaged her wet hair with a towel.

"Hello?" she asked vacantly, raising an eyebrow.

I swallowed. "My name is Christine duPreé. I'm—."

"Oh, right, the foreign student. I forgot you were arriving today." She paused, shrugging helplessly at me. "As you can see, this really isn't the best time. Hold on." Even if I had interpreted what the girl said, the promptly closed door was certainly answer enough.

Slumping against the wall, I pulled out the worn picture of my father from my pocket. It had not even been three months yet. Three months and I was already standing in a foreign land, my few friends a continent away, surrounded by people I did not know and could barely understand.

Charley burst open the door, looking down disdainfully at me. "Well, come in," she ordered, leaving the door propped open. Bags surrounded my person yet there was certainly no offer of assistance. I pushed myself off the cold tiles and grabbed everything I could carry.

Once inside the room, I stopped and stared at my surroundings. The room hardly qualified as anything more than a large closet, but I expected nothing more. However, much to my distress and amazement, the outside door was only a mere taste of what I stood in now. Risqué posters of men covered the walls, more pictures (I did not see one without her in it) taking up the rest of the wall space. Clothes and shoes were strewn in every odd place, leaving no open space of the floor untouched. The only objects I found remotely attractive were the strings of white Christmas lights adorning the whole of the room save for the miserable corner where a plain bunk bed rested. It was not hard to determine which corner would be mine.

I approached the corner warily. Thankfully already arranged in a space-saving position, the dresser and desk sat underneath the bed. Neither was especially big (I noticed they were not the same models as my roommate), but I was too tired to complain. Putting my things down next to the dresser, I reached outside the door and dragged in the rest of it. Charley stood unmoved in the middle of the room, arms crossed. I shifted uncomfortably under her insistent stare.

"So where are you from again?"

I had heard those words spoken enough in the past few days to recognize them immediately. "Perros-Guirec," I answered quietly. At her confused expression, I continued. "In Brittany, France."

My roommate shrugged. "I thought something like that. You have a strong accent. But I have some friend from Europe, so it shouldn't be too hard for me to understand what you say."

She shut the door and proceeded to stretch herself out on the futon, flipping on the TV, an obviously new 27 inch sitting atop of a hardwood stand. "I wasn't even supposed to have a roommate," she said, glancing back at me, "but the school let in far too many students this year, most of which don't deserve to be here."

Despite the obvious distain in her voice, I offered up a weak smile and mumbled an apology. Looking around the room again, I could not help but feel the sharp pang of regret, and ashamedly, envy. This was a girl well established, confident. Perhaps, in some small degree, the way I once was.

I nearly tripped on the designer heels scattered carelessly about the floor on route back to my corner. I do not know if Charley snickered or not—the TV was turned up too loud. Serenaded by reality shows and repetitive, melody-lacking music, I began the task of unpacking.

* * *

**Author's note:**

I apologize—I know the beginning sections aren't the most exciting, butexposition and character development is always important.

**TerpintineMind**, thank you very much for your comment!

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 3

"Would you like any more ma'am?"

I shook my head, pulling the plate closer to me with noticeable hesitation. While much of the food in the cafeteria looked appealing, this particular dish—a lumpy pudding recommended by my roommate—looked less than edible. Still, I had only so many points on my food card, and the price was acceptable.

The student cashier gave me a surprised look as she leaned over to punch in the correct keys on the register.

"You're a brave soul," she said, reaching out a hand to take my card. "I have no idea why they even make that stuff every morning—nobody will eat it."

I took my card back and gave a wary look at my plate before shrugging.The girl raised another eyebrow and made eye contact with the next person in line. Sighing, I steered myself through the maze of tables and chairs and laughing students. There was a small square table in the back corner, only one chair pulled next to it, the rest undoubtedly pulled away by other students to accommodate their larger groups.

I settled my backpack at my feet and sat down, throwing another unsure gaze at the happily eating students.

Picking up the fork, I took a pitiful bite of the pudding and nearly gagged at the thick, grimy texture of it. Cursing myself for not possessing foresight to get a napkin, I leaned helplessly over my plate, gripping the ceramic edges.

"Here."

A hand reached out, placing several napkins next to me. I grabbed them thankfully, relieved to rid my mouth of the pudding.

"Merci—" I looked up to thank my savior, only to see him already walking for the cafeteria doors.

My gaze followed the tall form as he disappeared out the door, deftly gliding around a small group of sorority girls entering the cafeteria. They threw quick glances at each other, some girls bold enough to look back again.

"I can't believe that just happened."

I spun around, face to face with the student cashier I had seen only a few minutes before.

"He sits there every morning," the girl continued, inclining her head to my seat. "But you look new, so I guess you wouldn't know that." I caught the last part of the girl's statement, nodding in agreement.

"I arrived from France a week ago," I said. The girl nodded, smiling. "Welcome, then," she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "You know, my shift ends in a few minutes. If you want, we can talk more after."

Smiled thankfully, I watched the girl walk away, a small glimmer of hope rising in me. I had missed being able to talk with friends—or anyone, for that matter.

Standing, I grabbed my plate and dumped the pudding into the trash bin. That was one thing I would _never_ miss.

* * *

**Author's note:**

Sorry for the long delay in this, but more chapters should be up soon! Thanks to everyone for reading!


	5. Chapter 4

The student cashier introduced herself as Megan Gardner, and I liked her immediately. Despite my constant tripping over English words, we quickly established a communication level suitable enough for mutual understanding. I had to laugh at her constant hand motions while she was talking; it made sense when she explained she part of the university's extra curricular dance company.

"What do you study?" she asked, deftly avoiding the other students on the path as we walked.

I smiled meekly, pausing a moment before I answered. "Medicine," I offered, and seeing the recognition on her face, gathered more confidence. "Umm…pre-med?"

Meg whistled, pulling back her dyed red hair into a ponytail as she walked. She gave me a grin. "That's tough major, especially here. Really tough. I have a few friends that are in the program though—I will have to give you their numbers, should you need any help."

In truth, I followed only half what she said, but I smiled nonetheless. "Thank you."

Meg stopped in front of an imposing multistory building. "Anyway, I have to get going, but you mentioned chemistry was your first class of the day?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Good luck then. I'm sure you'll do fine, though, especially after this morning."

Before I had a chance to question her, Meg was already moving down the path, her bag swinging at her side. I glanced up at the building a swallowed. Gathering whatever courage I still had, I joined the barrage of other late students that filtered past the doors, all while uttering a silent prayer.

* * *

"Christine dePrie?"

The TA looked up from the roll sheet, eyes searching the lecture hall. I raised my hand timidly, drawing the bored glances of several people. I wasn't about to even correct him on the pronunciation of my name.

The roll call lasted another half hour, the students around me shifting in their seats. I didn't blame them—already I have quite a work of art drawn on my notebook. It started to resemble my home…the small house I had had to leave behind, the beautiful beach and its rose colored rocks…

I was jolted from my thoughts by the slam of a book against the table. "Thank you," the TA started. "I know it is 8:30 am, but believe me, you will have to learn to stay awake for this class."

In unison, the class groaned.

I pulled my glasses out of my bag and settled them on the bridge of my nose, the TA coming into focus. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the front desk, giving us a crooked smile.

"Sorry about the roll call, folks, but it is school policy for the first day. If you name was not called, see me after class, or leave, as this is the dreaded organic chemistry."

There was another series of groans and whispers.

"Any questions?" A hand rose.

"Yes?"

The football player chewed on the end of his pencil. "So, uh, are you the professor?"

Just as the TA opened his mouth—

"I should think not."

With the rest of the class, I spun in my seat. At first we could see nothing but our own confused faces, but out of nowhere, _he_ appeared, talking one leisurely step after another down the lecture hall stairs. My eyes widened, along with every other female in the class.

As he passed by my row, I had no doubt I was looking at the same person who had come to my aid in the cafeteria. He moved the same way, each step with the same sort of instilled confident grace. The murmuring that had commenced at his entrance stopped immediately as he reached the bottom floor. With one sharp glance, the TA gave up his spot and hurried to the safe realm of the corner. The professor rested a folder neatly on the desk and turned toward the class, looking over every last one of us.

At first glance, he had appeared middle aged, though it was impossible to tell now. His was unlike any professor I had ever seen—so many seemed proud of maintain the stereotype of the nerdy intellectuals in both conduct and appearance. He wore a black dress shirt, casually unbuttoned at the top, along with a pair of loose fitting faded blue jeans. No wonder I had assumed earlier that he was another a student…

The dark hair was neat, longer strands resting against his forehead, (probably to the envy of every male student in the room), just sheltering his eyes. But there was no doubt his stare burned. I had never known such judgment as in that moment.

But the moment was over as quickly as it had begun, and with an apathetic shrug, he glanced over the TA.

"Richard here is a competent enough grad student. You will bring your questions to him. He will hand out syllabus and your first assignment. Thank you, that is all."

Without another word, he exited the room, leaving us to turn towards each other with confused glances. The TA cleared his throat, picking up the folder with hesitation. His gaze found the football player again. "_That _was Dr. Lacroux."


End file.
